Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 102
“Scandal enough.”
“My mother’s arrival,” Juliana said.
He shook his head. “Not your scandal.”
She smiled. “Nonsense. She’s the scandal that started it all.”
“So she is.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I shall have to thank her someday.” He pressed on. “Toppling Lady Needham’s harvest bounty . . .”
“Well, really, who decorates a staircase in vegetables? And if we’re going to count all my scandals, how about the ones in which you were scandalous as well?” She ticked them off as she listed them. “Kissing me in my brother’s stables . . . ravishing me at your own betrothal ball . . . and let’s not forget—”
He kissed the side of her neck. “Mmm. By all means, let’s not forget.”
She laughed and pushed him away. “Bonfire Night.”
The amber in his eyes darkened. “I assure you, Siren, I would never forget Bonfire Night.”
“How many is that?”
“Eight.”
“There, you see? I told you! I am the very model of propriety!” He barked his laughter and a worried look crossed her face. “Nine,” she said.
“Nine?”
“I insulted your mother at the dressmaker’s.” She lowered her voice. “In front of people.”
His brows shot up. “When?”
“During our wager.”
He grinned. “I would have liked to see that.”
She covered her eyes. “It was awful. I still cannot look her in the eye.”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with cutting her in a modiste’s shop and everything to do with the fact that my mother is terrifying.” She giggled. “There were at least two that first night—at the Ralston ball.”
She thought back. “So there were. Grabeham in the gardens and your carriage.”
He stiffened. “Grabeham, was it?”
Her fingers wandered into the curls at the nape of his neck. “He does not require additional handling, Simon.”
Simon raised a brow. “You may not think so . . . but I shall enjoy paying him a visit.”
“If you are allowed into his home, considering what a scandal you are,” she teased.
“There! That is your twelfth. The Northumberland Ball,” he announced, wrapping her tightly in his arms. “No more climbing of ladders while incinta.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “Your storming of Northumberland House is entirely your scandal. I had nothing to do with it! Take it back.”
He chuckled against the side of her neck, and she shivered at the sensation. “Fair enough. I claim that one in its entirety.”
She smiled. “That’s the best one of them all.”
He raised a brow in ducal imperiousness. “Haven’t I told you that I find it is not worth doing anything if one does not do it well?”
Her peal of laughter was lost in his kiss, long and expert, until they pulled apart, gasping for air. He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “My magnificent wife.”
She dipped her head at the worshipful tone, then remembered. “You had news. When you entered.”
He settled back in the chair, removing a letter from his jacket pocket. “I did. We have a nephew. The future Marquess of Ralston.”
Juliana’s eyes went wide with pleasure, snatching the paper from his hand, reading eagerly. “A boy! Henry.” She met Simon’s gaze. “And two becomes three.” Nick’s daughter, Elizabeth, had been born two weeks earlier, and now shared the nursery at Townsend Park with a growing, happy Caroline.
Simon pulled Juliana to him, placing a kiss at the tip of her eyebrow and tucking her against his chest. “Come autumn, we shall do our part and add a fourth to their merry band.”
Pleasure coiled as she thought of their blossoming family—a wild, wonderful family she’d never dared imagine. “You realize that they shall be the worst kind of trouble,” she teased.
He was silent for a long time—long enough for Juliana to lift her head and meet his serious, golden gaze.
When she did, he smiled, broad and beautiful. “They shall be the very best kind of trouble.”
And they were.
“My mother’s arrival,” Juliana said.
He shook his head. “Not your scandal.”
She smiled. “Nonsense. She’s the scandal that started it all.”
“So she is.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I shall have to thank her someday.” He pressed on. “Toppling Lady Needham’s harvest bounty . . .”
“Well, really, who decorates a staircase in vegetables? And if we’re going to count all my scandals, how about the ones in which you were scandalous as well?” She ticked them off as she listed them. “Kissing me in my brother’s stables . . . ravishing me at your own betrothal ball . . . and let’s not forget—”
He kissed the side of her neck. “Mmm. By all means, let’s not forget.”
She laughed and pushed him away. “Bonfire Night.”
The amber in his eyes darkened. “I assure you, Siren, I would never forget Bonfire Night.”
“How many is that?”
“Eight.”
“There, you see? I told you! I am the very model of propriety!” He barked his laughter and a worried look crossed her face. “Nine,” she said.
“Nine?”
“I insulted your mother at the dressmaker’s.” She lowered her voice. “In front of people.”
His brows shot up. “When?”
“During our wager.”
He grinned. “I would have liked to see that.”
She covered her eyes. “It was awful. I still cannot look her in the eye.”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with cutting her in a modiste’s shop and everything to do with the fact that my mother is terrifying.” She giggled. “There were at least two that first night—at the Ralston ball.”
She thought back. “So there were. Grabeham in the gardens and your carriage.”
He stiffened. “Grabeham, was it?”
Her fingers wandered into the curls at the nape of his neck. “He does not require additional handling, Simon.”
Simon raised a brow. “You may not think so . . . but I shall enjoy paying him a visit.”
“If you are allowed into his home, considering what a scandal you are,” she teased.
“There! That is your twelfth. The Northumberland Ball,” he announced, wrapping her tightly in his arms. “No more climbing of ladders while incinta.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “Your storming of Northumberland House is entirely your scandal. I had nothing to do with it! Take it back.”
He chuckled against the side of her neck, and she shivered at the sensation. “Fair enough. I claim that one in its entirety.”
She smiled. “That’s the best one of them all.”
He raised a brow in ducal imperiousness. “Haven’t I told you that I find it is not worth doing anything if one does not do it well?”
Her peal of laughter was lost in his kiss, long and expert, until they pulled apart, gasping for air. He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “My magnificent wife.”
She dipped her head at the worshipful tone, then remembered. “You had news. When you entered.”
He settled back in the chair, removing a letter from his jacket pocket. “I did. We have a nephew. The future Marquess of Ralston.”
Juliana’s eyes went wide with pleasure, snatching the paper from his hand, reading eagerly. “A boy! Henry.” She met Simon’s gaze. “And two becomes three.” Nick’s daughter, Elizabeth, had been born two weeks earlier, and now shared the nursery at Townsend Park with a growing, happy Caroline.
Simon pulled Juliana to him, placing a kiss at the tip of her eyebrow and tucking her against his chest. “Come autumn, we shall do our part and add a fourth to their merry band.”
Pleasure coiled as she thought of their blossoming family—a wild, wonderful family she’d never dared imagine. “You realize that they shall be the worst kind of trouble,” she teased.
He was silent for a long time—long enough for Juliana to lift her head and meet his serious, golden gaze.
When she did, he smiled, broad and beautiful. “They shall be the very best kind of trouble.”
And they were.
